Knights of the Air
by Cmdr. Gen. Marasco
Summary: A one-shot sparked by the movie Flyboys. The internal monolouge of an American fighter pilot during a mission after America's entry into the war. Yes, Deryn and the Leviathan show up as well.


Knights of the Air

I breath deeply, heart pounding. This is why I love what I do; I'm already feeling jacked up and I'm not even in the fight yet.

My breath echoes loudly in the Yap-Amorette Oxygen Mask I have attached to my face. "Attached" is the right word; it's a beastie, like most of our gear, and it's literally stuck to my face with a form-fitting suction cup. It's not really comfortable, but it's necessary; the container of fabricated algae attached to my chest means I can keep breathing normally even at high altitudes and under the most crushing of maneuvers.

It's certainly useful right now. My squadron and I are at 50,000 feet, cursing in formation at top speed towards a set of coordinates. Seems some British hydrogen breather's gotten itself in a bit of a pickle with a pair of German zeppelins and their fighter escorts. And we're going into clean house.

We'll be there within minutes. We're flying the best beasties American boffins can fabricate, not some pathetic Clanker crates. They're officially called Biological Air Combat Vehicles, or BACV's. But everyone just calls them Sky Sharks. The name's fitting; they have the life threads of the Great White Shark in 'em. They're like the animal they were made from; fast, agile, and deadly. Our top speed's close to 400 miles an hour, using a compressed gas drive like that of a squid. We can turn on a dime, and we've got six .50 caliber sparkless machine guns and two 20mm cannon to waste anyone in our way. I love them. And, more particularly, my personal one. But then again, what good Darwinist doesn't love the fabs they use?

Something glints in the corner of my eye. A glance to the right reveals it to be the shining skin of an armored airship. Slapped proudly on it's side is the Iron Cross of Germany. A Kondor transport airship. No, wait, two of them.

Bingo. Target's spotted. Moments later, the call comes in over my headset, transmitted from my flight lead's Sky Shark by a fabricated insect of some kind.

"Tally ho, boys. Bandits, four o'clock low. Let's turn and burn!"

That's our cue. Calls of joy and insults against the Clankers go between us, and we commence our attack. Twelve Sharks pulling about in beautiful synchronization. Stick pressed to my gut, I follow, G-forces tugging at my insides. I can't help but howl in joy. It's echoed by my flight.

Our attack is perfect. The Clanker's don't know we're coming. They're too busy trying to knock down the hydrogen breather. From here, I can see they're not doing a very good job. It's an older breed, made from a sperm whale, and it's _fast_. As I watch, it visibly pulls ahead of the two zeppelins. Which itself is interesting; last I heard, British cloud whales weren't faster than Clanker gas bags. Though then again, this whale seems different. Hell, there's smoke coming out of it's engines, and they aren't on fire.

Right, can't think about that. Have to focus. Clankers to kill.

I ram the stick into my gut again and pull up, gaining altitude. Around me, my squadron breaks off and engages targets at will. I scan the sky, looking for something to kill.

There; a German fighter. Single engine, single wing. Probably a scout. Lightly armed, if at all. Perfect.

He's just below me, and a little too my left. 10 o'clock low, but climbing.

No need to do any hard work; he's going to come to me. Obviously he's not an experienced pilot. He's heading in a straight line, not jinking or rolling or pulling any of those fancy maneuvers Clanker pilots are supposed to know. Sucks to be him.

Another second, and he literally passes right in front of me. No time for thought, no time for doubt; just the press of the trigger.

My six 50's open up, spewing white-hot American lead. He catches the full burst. His plane comes apart. Wood and metal go in every direction, and he belches smoke. He climbs for a moment, then keels over and dives, trailing a black plume behind him. I follow him down with my eyes, making sure he's not faking it. We were told to watch out for that. But he's not faking. I can see that. There's red all over what remains of his plane. He's out of the gene pool.

The wreckage is close to one of the zeppelins. For a moment, I think it might hit. But I'm not so lucky. It passed by with feet to spare and falls on towards the earth.

One down, who knows how many more to go. Time to get back to work.

I climb again, once more searching the sky. The element of surprise is gone now. The Clankers are fighting back at us, but at the same time trying to knock down the hydrogen breather. Above me has formed "the furball"; the swirling, chaotic dance of death and glory every pilot lives for. Clanker crates and Darwinist beasties throw themselves around the sky, leaving trails of smoke and fire.

But it's obviously a slaughter, not a fight. The Clankers stand no chance. They're flying machines of un-fabricated wood, and that has a breaking point. Even as I sit here, one plane goes to far and comes apart in mid-air.

Another flashes past me; a two seater, the gunner in the front blazing away with his .30 cal machine gun. I turn and get on his tail.

This guy's a bit better. He sees me and starts swinging around. But he's flying a biplane. It's turn speed is pathetic. All he does is give me a perfect shot at him.

I squeeze the trigger again and tap my rudder peddle, walking bullets up his fuselage until I hit the gas tank. There's a flash of light and he's gone.

Two for me.

Another glance around. The fight's still going on. There's smoke and fire everywhere, and not all of it is from enemies. There's a fireball off to my right, all that remains of one of my buddies. That's the bad thing about Sky Sharks; they're technically hydrogen breathers, so if you get hit in the right place, boom. I hope he bailed out in time.

I don't have time to check. Lead zips by my canopy, making my Sky Shark shudder. It's alive; it can feel fear. And it's feeling it now.

I curse and slam the stick down, rolling towards the earth. Pulling up would be suicide. Down is the only way to go. Plus, a dive gives me speed, which is something you need in a dogfight.

I glance over the back of my Shark, eyes straining. There; another scout, trying to get a clear shot on my six. Sorry, Jerry. Not going to happen.

I finish my roll and come out behind and below him. I'm out of his line of sight, but he's in the wrong place for me to shoot with my machine guns. Too far out of range.

That's fine. I've got cannon.

The press of a button (really a fabricated beetle) and they're armed. Again I pull the trigger. The Clanker comes apart at the seems and drops like a rock. Right on top of me.

Once more, no time to think. Only to act. I ram the throttle lever by my right hand forward, shoving my Shark to it's full speed. Hydrogen flows into my exhaust, boosting my speed.

The reenforced nose of my Shark connects with the remains of the scout and cuts right through it. Just like it was designed too.

Debris falls to both sides of me, and I'm back in the fight.

A third kill under my belt. Not bad.

Once more a glance around the sky battlefield. It looks like it's winding down. At least, the dogfight part is. The zeppelins are still going after the British whale, or at least trying too. They're having a bit of a hard time with it. The whale's pulling away faster than should be possible, and it's launching strafing hawks and flettchet bats back at the Germans.

Time to mop up.

As soon as I think that, my flight leader comes over my headset again.

"All Sharks, commence attack on the Clankers! First flight, hit the one on the starboard! Second flight, take the other one! Third flight, mop up the stragglers! Go!"

That's all I need to hear. I'm already moving.

I'm part of second flight. My target's the gas bag on the left of the hydrogen breather.

I know what to do; come in from the back and the top. That's the least defended area. Watch for machine gun fire from it's back. And be sure to use something that burns.

Easy enough; my Shark's loaded with incendiary rounds. I flip over and start my attack run.

It's just like in training; lines of white streak up from the back of the airship. I duck and weave, making myself a harder target to hit. I return fire, stitching a long line of slow-burning holes in the fabric skin of the Kondor. I keep my gun firing along the whole length of the gas bag and then pull up. Behind me I can hear the 50s of my flight mates doing the same.

Stick to my gut, backing up for another pass, I see I'm not needed; the zeppelin's already on fire, it's insides glowing. It's mate is already sinking. The fires spreads, and soon little white dots start popping from the sides. The crew, parachuting out of their burning ride. Not that it's going to do anything. Third flight drops on them like a bag of rocks.

I don't stick around to watch. Instead, I throttle up slightly and leave the now-burning airships behind. Before me, the British whale, still going full steam. I match it's speed, then exceed it slightly. Just enough for me to fly easily past it.

I'm not doing this for fun; I'm checking to make sure the thing we were told to protect was actually protected. At least, that's what I tell myself, and it's what I'll say to my flight lead if he asks.

Slowly, I pull along side the great beast. I'm close; so close I can see its sides rippling in time to the wind. See the smoke coming from the engines (not to mention the fact the damn things have propellers! What the hell are they using to power this thing?) Clearly make out the air guns on the spine, the crew running around doing repairs with strange two-faced dogs...

And there, on the side of the ship; her name.

_Leviathan_.

Well, there's something you don't see every day. My squad just saved a god-damn hero ship!

I should break off. My job's done here. Time to head back to base. But...I can't. The airbeast is just too majestic. I've never seen one before, not this close.

Movement up on the spine; one of the crew's waving at me. I glance over. Its some young kid, probably barely sixteen. Hair looks like a field of wheat. Got something on his shoulder, like a cat or something. Chubby little thing.

He's doing something funny with his arms...

Wait, he's not waving. It's semaphore. I watch, tracking his arms.

N-I-C-E-O-N-E-Y-A-N-K-S is what he's saying.

Got that right, Tommy boy.

I wish there was some way to signal him back, tell him it's all good. But, there's no flags or lights in my Sky Shark, so I just waggle my fins in response, then break off back towards my flight.

We form up, choosing to ignore the empty spots in our formation. We'll mourn those who we lost later.

Right now, it's time to bask in our victory, and head home.

I smile into my mask as I realize something; I got three kills this run. I lifted off today with two under my belt. I'm an ace now.

I wonder if I can double that next run?


End file.
